


Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori

by SylvanWitch



Series: In the Ruins [7]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: AU post-OotP, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I would like to tell you that we will be victorious, that the forces of Darkness will not swallow whole the world in which we have lived and that we have loved for so long [. . .] but I cannot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori

**Author's Note:**

> This series was my first ever fanfiction endeavor, posted at RestrictedSection.org in 2004. The title of this chapter is from an ancient Roman saying and also from a famous Wilfred Owen WWI poem of the same name.

The kitchen was dark, with only a low, banked fire in the hearth, and eight shadowed faces seemed to float, disembodied, above the steaming mugs and plates laid out on the long table when Snape and Black entered. Over the room, a thick, breathable tension sang, pulling facial muscles taut against cheekbones, hollowing out the spaces around eyes, turning mouths into grim slits. Each person was alone with his or her thoughts, breakfasts barely touched, sipped liquid an afterthought to the dread or sorrow or horror or resignation lurking in the corners of every mind. Snape's face was a ghastly green death's head in the dim light, as his livid mark cast up its green, putrid glow. The Mark ached and burned, as if feeding off the bleak emotions in the air, and he wished, not for the last time that day, that he could cut his arm off at the elbow. The pain of a bleeding stump seemed far preferable to the constant throbbing reminder of his greatest mistake.

A hopeful thought would have been stifled even as it rose into the forboding, heavy air, overwhelmed in number by the myriad creeping doubts and truncated dreams pacing through each head. Even Tonks, ever ebullient, was subdued, her face pale, hair a (perhaps) natural black, her characteristic gum absent or silenced. Strategy was pushing to the forefront of her brain, even while she tried to recall the face of the cute young man she'd seen at the Leaky Cauldron during her last vacation in Diagon Alley. She thought his name might have been Bartholemew, and he'd had an unruly shock of ginger hair and a mess of freckles and a smile that warmed her against the chill at her back as she had entered the dim old pub.

Shacklebolt was turning over a map of the Ministry's Atrium in his mind, considering for the umpteenth time all the permutations of their plan. His concentration was interrupted only by the memory of walking in the sunshine, a woman's hand in his, the sky a perfect blue and waves rolling in warm and lazily against their bare feet. Somewhere off in the distance, wild music rose into the air, and he breathed in the hot fragrance of tropical flowers and the sheer greenness of the place and time. 

Hagrid was imagining his cottage as it had been, Fang curled beside the fireplace and a tankard of home brew waiting at the table, perhaps Hermione, Ron, and Harry tramping through crisp snow, bootfalls sharp in the crystal air of a Hogwarts winter night. He'd lay out a plate of homemade biscuits and Christmas fudge and listen to their stories, voices rising and falling counter to the wind outside. From the forest, they'd hear the occasional knicker of a unicorn or the ominous thumping of charging hooves. Overhead, an owl would hoot peacefully.

Dumbledore was remembering the Christmas feast, hams and geese and turkeys golden and glistening in the candlelight, mounds of mashed potatoes, piles of peas, and the traditional crackers lined like a child's promise before every plate. He remembered the abashed glee Minerva (dear Minerva) always tried to hide when she held her cracker out to Albus to share in the pulling, and her delight, small and private, over whatever enchanted trinket came from the telltale "POP!" 

Luna was thinking of her father, not in the cage where he suffered now, but last year at this time when they'd trekked through a snow-deep pass in the Carpathians, cloaked and bewarmed with spells, in search of an elusive snow-werewolf believed to be extinct. They'd seen the prints in the snow early one morning, just as the sun had risen over the sharp line of the mountains that towered around them, a deep fresh print, cupping only a shallow dusting of that morning's snow. Their breaths had plumed out in the cold air, and the look of joy on her father's face had made her smile.

Sirius recalled the Christmas letter with Harry's hasty scrawl across a sheet of parchment, some of the letters smudged in his enthusiasm to send it off in time, and the awkwardly wrapped package that had proved to be a book of poems by a Muggle named Lovelace, who wrote that "Stone walls do not a prison make,/Nor iron bars a cage." Harry's note had read, "I know that it's not the same, but I hope that these poems bring you comfort. I think this Lovelace chap had the right idea about being free in your mind and soul, even if not in your body. Anyway, they reminded me of you when I read them."

Molly was seeing her family, the whole noisy lot crowded around an impossibly small table groaning with steaming dishes. From one end a shout went up as Fred and George's "Crazy Christmas Crackers" took Ginny unawares, and she squealed in surprise and astonished delight at the blue-smoke phantom cat who took up residence in her butterbeer. Ron was leaning toward his twin brothers with a look of glee as he told another story of his exploits that semester, and Percy was trying to look officious as Ron recounted broken rule after broken rule. Arthur, for his part, was talking animatedly with Bill and Charlie about a Muggle invention called a "Hemi": "Half the engine and twice the fuel!" he'd said, excitedly. 

Snape was feeling the heat of his hearth fire, with the pleasant contrast of damp dungeon air at his back, even through the worn velvet of his chair. The air was still except for the settling of logs in the fire and the crackle of dry wood and sizzle of sap as it bubbled and was burned fragrantly in the close air of his study. In his hand, a brandy caught the firelight, refracting it into sepia tones against the open pages of his book, and as he breathed in the scent of the spirit he felt the peace of being alone and content and free of duty.

Fletcher and Rosmerta were both in the same place, he on one side, she the other of the long, scuffed bar at the Three Broomsticks. Laughter filled the smoky air, thick with suggestion, and spilt firewhiskey tickled their nostrils as they sucked in the scents. Dimly over the laughter came the low murmur of secretive voices or the thwap of cards dealt upon a wooden table. Someone coughed, and it was familiar and beloved. 

Finally, Albus cleared his throat, bringing nine reluctant minds back to the focus of the present moment. Someone sighed audibly, regretfully, and others shifted in their chairs, the rustle of robes like swallows wings in the still pre-dawn air. Only the low fire kept up its cheerful noise, oblivious to the awful weight of the coming battles.

"I would like to tell you that we will be victorious, that the forces of Darkness will not swallow whole the world in which we have lived and that we have loved for so long," he paused, dragging a deep breath through a throat constricted with grief, "but I cannot." Snape eyed him calculatingly, speculation clear on his face. Only Luna shared the look. "What I can tell you is that, regardless of the outcome of this day's endeavors, you will all have had a share in the greatest effort ever known to wizardkind, the effort to free the world from certain destruction at the hands of an evil far greater than any it has known before. On this day, the eve of Yule, we anticipate the coming of the Green God, the joyous celebration of life, which we must now wrest from the jaws of Darkness and death with all the personal force and combined skill that we can muster. Never doubt that you will have a share in the glory of this day from now until time immemorial, and should we be victorious, your names will be sung by the bards of history until the earth itself ceases to bear any life. Give bright blessings to one another, then, and make a merry part, for we shall meet in this life or the next with equal joy in knowing that we have borne the weight of ages and have not been bowed down. None can take from us what is ours: courage, strength, faith, and love for this world and our people. Be quick now, my friends, and arm for the coming battle!"

He stood, then, suddenly majestic in his strength, power pouring off of him in undulating waves, snatching the breath from the throats of those nearest to him, spreading a warm net over the waiting "army." Hesitant glances, the uncertain scraping of chair legs against the floor, and then the quick flurry of hurried and mutual goodbyes. 

Black and Snape had said all that they would ever say on the subject of goodbyes, so they stood shoulder to shoulder, welcoming the words and handshakes of the others in the room. There was a stillness and solidarity about them that suggested long acquaintance and an abiding loyalty to one another and the cause, though none could name it then. Molly embraced Black tightly, whispering something in his ear. When she pulled away, he had a smile on his face. She paused, hesitating only a fraction of a second before similarly embracing Snape, who stiffened and then relaxed enough to rest one warm, strong hand firmly on the woman's shoulder. They shared the minutest of smiles, and she moved on to Hagrid.

Albus likewise gave Black a long hug and a few words of personal encouragement and then moved on to Snape, who held up a hand as if to prevent another embrace. Instead, Snape laid his hands on Albus' shoulders and looked directly into the old wizard's twinkling eyes. "I know, Albus." The Headmaster merely nodded, eyes dimming into something darker than sorrow and sharper than despair. "Yes," he said simply, "I suspected that you might. Be well, old friend, and be careful. Take care to accept what is given you," Albus said, moving his chin in the direction of Sirius, who was now talking animatedly with Tonks. Snape could not glower at this, though he scorned the sentiment, instead nodding once, sharply, and offering the Headmaster his hand. Albus ignored the outstretched hand and took Severus in his arms, holding him tightly and whispering something into his ear. Severus, head bowed, stepped back from the embrace and then moved, unbidden, toward the kitchen door. The others broke apart slowly, gathering into their assigned groups, and moved to line up behind Severus. Albus was the last in line, holding the Gift gingerly, as though it might burn him. He waved a hand to indicate that Snape should open the door and begin the exodus.

Out in the yard, the cold air breathed about them in icy gusts, and they stood in the December wind in silent groups, staring first at one another and then at nothing, eyes blurred with memory or concentration, perhaps both. Snape raised a hand, palm out, eyes locked for a moment on Black, who mirrored the tall wizard's gesture. There was a loud "Pop!" and then the deep absence of life where once there had been friends. One by one, the groups apparated, Albus the last to go, one hand clutching the green pouch on a leather cord around his neck.

*****

In a filthy London alley, stinking of rotten meat and fresh urine, three figures huddled behind an overflowing dumpster, heads close, whispered words urgent. There was a pause, a kind of hush, and then a large black dog wandered out from behind the dumpster, plumed tail waving casually, as though to a tune only the canine could hear. The dog paused at a puddle of dubious origins, then meandered toward a loose fishwrapper laying flattened and wet against the damp ground of the alley. It made its way across the street, no traffic at that still, pre-dawn hour, and nosed through the doorway of a streetside pub, strangely open at this early hour. The two other figures drew hoods up over their heads, hiding their faces in the dark recesses of cloth, and moved stealthily to the alleyway entrance, breaths steaming in the light cast by the single working streetlamp. One of the figures pointed a long object and muttered a word and the light went out with a noise not unlike a last expelled breath.

From across the street came a bark, then shouted words clear in the dawn stillness, "Get 'em!" and "What in Merlin's na--" and "Oof!" and then a high-pitched yowl, as of an animal in terrible pain. Tonks made as if to dart across the street, but she was forcibly restrained by Fletcher, who pushed her back against the alley wall and hissed, "No. Not until we hear the signal, girl!" into her ear. She paused in her effort to be free of the wizard and turned her head to listen. Silence for long minutes, until she thought she could hear the stars winking out, the blueness of dawn creeping up the sky like the sheet pulled over the ghastly face of a cadaver. So suddenly it startled them both, a voice sounded "Clear!" and they were across the street faster than their shadows, then through the door of the Leaky Cauldron.

On the floor near the bar was the body of a wizard, charred hole smoking in the center of his chest. Moving to peak behind the bar, Tonks saw a witch, torn throat bloody, the last beat of her heart even then pumping blood out of the gaping wound. At the back, nearest the secret passageway into Diagon Alley, lay an ancient, wizened man, hand crabbed around a battered wand, face contorted and frozen, eyes wide but unseeing. Sirius' face was grim, and he cradled one hand against his body.

"You alright?" gruffed Mundungus.

"Yes, just a burn from--" and he jerked his head in the direction of the still smoking corpse. He shook the hand, as if casting off pain, and barked tersely, "Get the insignia," to Tonks, and it was only then that she noticed all three of the dead wore green swatches of silk like banners across their chests. The elderly wizard's hat sported a badge, too, and Tonks took it, handing it wordlessly to Black, who only shook his head and deferred to Fletcher.

Mundungus said, "Oi, he's a Cap'n, if you'll believe it! Never knew ol' Croudly had it in 'im. Those Death Eaters must've been desperate for help if they'd recruit him. Not sober a day in his long, sad life." So saying, he fastened the badge to his own battered cap and walked back toward the secret entrance.

"This is the risky part," he said, but from the twin grim expressions on the faces of the other two, his observation had already been noted. 

"Okay--when the passageway opens, as soon as it's wide enough--you go through, Tonks. They won't expect anyone to be able to slip through so small an opening. Blast anyone you see. Then you, Sirius. They won't be expecting the Grim, neither!" Mundungus gave a hoarse chuckle. "Then me. Try to do it quiet like; no sense waking up the others. With any luck, all the Knockturn traitors'll be knocked out cold from drink." He gave another chuckle at his own play on words. 

Black reached up and began to key the stones in the correct opening pattern, and Tonks stood at ready, fairly vibrating with the urge to action. As soon as the stones cleared a space barely wide enough for her petite form, she threw herself forward, diving for the ground and casting curses in a steady stream, green, red, and blue light arcing from her wand. Return fire came immediately, someone yelped, there was a choked gurgling, then Sirius leapt through, growling menacingly, audible even over the ripping curses. He lunged for the throat of a nearby wizard, who fell backward, tripping over his own robes in his haste to escape the death barreling at him. Black was on his throat, sickening crunch swallowing the dead man's scream even as it left him. Mundungus was through then, diving behind a trashbin and firing a spell at a Death Eater who had just come through the back door of a nearby tavern. The Death Eater fell into a graceful pool of deep red robes, like blood from the bloodless wound.

"It can't be that easy," Tonks said, rising cautiously from the safety of an improvised bunker. Mundungus cast the impertinent girl a single, horrified look, as if to suggest that she'd just jinxed them irrecoverably. But no one else came through the doorway. They held their collective breaths, willing silence, hoping to not hear the surreptitious noises of reinforcements gathering inside the pub from which the last enemy wizard had emerged. After a minute that stretched into eternity, they all relaxed visibly, wand hands falling to rest at their sides, still armed but less rigid. 

"I count four," Sirius noted, and Fletcher gave a gruff "Right" in agreement. 

"This one's still alive," Tonks reported from between a wall and a pile of rotting refuse.

Fletcher crossed the alley unhurriedly, paused to identify the wounded wizard—"McTeague"—and then calmly aimed his wand and fired a violent curse at the dying man. The body jerked and was still. Tonks, pale and shaking, backed away from the spot. Mundungus gave her a gibbous eye, barked, "It's kill or be killed, girl. Get ahold of yerself!" and moved toward the tavern door.

Sirius, face strangely blank, flanked him at the other side of the door. Tonks hunkered down behind a dumpster near the doorway and then nodded to Sirius, who counted a silent one-two-three and flung the door inward. Again nothing. After assuring that the tavern was clear, they moved into position near the alley's mouth, where it opened onto Diagon Alley.

The Grim moved first, wandering out of the alley and into the gutter, where it nosed amongst the sodden refuse for a moment before bounding down the street in pursuit of a rat the size of a small dog. Tonks blinked hard and sprouted straggly gray hair, a wart with three black wires growing from it on her bulbous, misshapen nose, and an obvious hump on her left shoulder. Hunching and shuffling her feet, she toddered out into the street in the general direction the dog had taken, muttering to herself what sounded like the recipe for making one's broom a lethal airborne weapon, "The fat of a newborn baby—belladonna—bride's virginal blood. . ." Fletcher stayed behind to cover and keep clear their exit. He made himself busy by disposing of the bodies; then, he entered the tavern, picked up a damp rag kept behind the bar for the very purpose, and started to polish the bar purposefully. He began to whistle something bawdy and off-key.

The Grim reached Ollivander's first, scouting it from the far side of the street while rolling in a particularly suspect puddle that looked like curdled milk mixed with rancid blood. Two Death Eaters in full costume, hoods, masks, and all, stood at sharp attention to either side of the barred doorway. The one on the left was pinning Sirius to the ground with a sharp, all-seeing stare. Seeing Tonks approaching in a quick shuffle, watching suspicious recognition cross through the eyes of the second Death Eater, whose hand hovered indecisively in the region of his wandsleeve, Sirius gallumped across the street and skidded to a halt in front of the two. The first Death Eater, the one that had been watching him, went for his wand just as Sirius began to shake vigorously, showering them with the foul, rotten wet mess of the puddle in which he had rolled. The second Death Eater took a step back in disgust, throwing his wand hand up to shield his face from the awful shower. The first began to elocute "Ava---" when a single green lance of magical light pierced him between the eyes, and he fell backwards into the doorway, sliding into a loose heap of inanimate flesh. His mask, pulled up from behind as it caught on the wrought iron filigree of the ornate door, ripped away to reveal the surprised expression on the elder Goyle's face. In the seconds the action had taken, the second Death Eater had stood frozen in place, wand half out, half caught in his robe sleeve. Terror-blind, frozen with horror, the masked figure started to speak, tried to say, "Wait!" but got no further when Sirius bowled him over with a powerful leap and rode the stricken Death Eater to the ground, savaging the arm still thrown across the face of the man. Tonks hissed "Silencio!" as the screaming began and then turned away from the scene. When sufficient time had passed, she turned back to find Sirius standing just to one side of a steaming, bloodied corpse, a satisfied smirk on his face. She shuddered, and his smile faded a little. They pulled the bodies into an alley, secreting them in a basement stairwell.

Though barred with extra grating, the front door of Ollivander's shop yielded quickly to their experimental opening charms, and they entered cautiously, wands raised, expecting curses. None came. Silence. Sirius finally nodded Tonks behind the long counter as he began to grab wands at random, opening boxes and removing the graceful lengths of polished wood. He found a shopping bag and began to fill it with the liberated wands, pausing only long enough to go to the door and check the street for signs of activity. 

It was when Sirius was returning from the door that a yellow bolt of light shot out of the darkened upper reaches of the room and straight for him; he dove desperately for cover, hitting a display rack and knocking it noisily to the ground, wands scattering and rolling along the floor in a clatter like strung bones. A second bolt, this time blue, pierced the darkness, lighting up Tonks, who huddled behind the counter, staring agitatedly up into the shop's dark second level, searching for the origin of the curses. A third bolt, red, a fourth, yellow again, and then, "Ollivander!" Silence. "Ollivander—it's me, Nymphadora Tonks—Auror—are you there?" More silence. Then the hist of feet against floor, a fluttering of robes. "Ollivander, it's alright. We're here to help you!" Finally, a squeaky voice, somewhere between a boy's and a man's, said, "Prove it!" 

With a blink, Tonks was back to her patented cobalt blue hair and nose-ring. "Is that you, Barmy?" 

"Don't call me that!" was the instant reply, and then a frustrated exclamation as the speaker realized his gaffe.

"We're here to help you," she said calmly, a smile evident in her voice.

"Who's 'we'?" the suspicious voice responded.

"Tonks and—er---" a bolt of red light—"Selenius Sumner," she said, calling on the name of an Auror-in-training who had washed out of the program three years before, "He's an Auror, too."

The slow creaking of steps on a wooden ladder was heard and then two skinny legs beneath too-short, worn black robes came into view, followed by the body and head of a young man, perhaps nineteen years old, whose pockmarked face still wore deep suspicion and abiding mistrust. This was Bartholemew "Barmy" Jenkins, Ollivander's wandmaker apprentice, who had joined his staff only a few days before the attack on Diagon Alley. Tonks had seen him at her favorite pub now and again and, being the sort who liked to chat with all kinds and took especially kindly to lonely young men with few social graces, she'd befriended him. 

"How do I know you're not the enemy using Polyjuice Potion?" he asked.

Tonks snorted, and Sirius spoke for the first time from behind the overturned display rack, "Why would the Death Eaters need to use Polyjuice to come into a store that they've been holding for some time?"

This seemed to set the apprentice aback, for he pondered a while before answering, "Maybe you're trying to flush me out of hiding," a note of triumph, of the AH-HA! variety in his broken voice.

Tonks snorted again, louder this time. "Well, we've succeeded then, haven't we, and no sense fighting us. Honestly, Barmy, you're too much," and she walked up and flung a friendly arm around his thin, hunched shoulders. He cringed and then, ashamed of himself, drew himself up to his lanky height.

"Well, okay then. What're you doing here?"

"Starting a revolution," Tonks observed with no small amount of glee. It was Sirius' turn to snort:

"Not if we don't hurry up. It's almost dawn. We've got to move if we're going to arm the resistance here and make it to the rendezvous point on schedule."

"Right!" said Tonks firmly, back in full Auror mode. "Want to help?" she threw over her shoulder even as she turned back to the task of collecting wands.

"Uh—okay," he said, picking up a sack and helping her. And so it was that Bartholemew Jenkins, apprentice wandmaker, was deputized into the cause of saving the world from ultimate evil. He had been working in a magically protected and disguised room, where Ollivander cured the wood he used for making wands, when the Death Eaters had taken the shop. Because Jenkins was new to the establishment and rather shy, at that, none knew to look for him at Ollivander's, and he'd been in hiding ever since, living off what little food he could scavenge or transfigure from shavings and rejected wandwood. 

"It's strange. The past two days, I've felt this tugging at my stomach, like a thread pulling me, but I've been too afraid to follow it. I chalked it up to hunger."

Sirius and Tonks exchanged a considering look but said nothing.

Then, Sirius said, "Do you think that you can distribute these wands to the people on the list we've given you? You must take the utmost care not to be seen. We've disabled eight of the irregular troops and two Death Eaters, so that should be some help. We can transfigure a couple of those barrels that I saw in the alleyway into passable Death Eater statues; you can cloak them in the masks and robes. With any luck, no one will notice the difference between a wooden Goyle and the real thing—Merlin knows he's dense enough. You must hurry, though. It's important that this resistance start at twelve o'clock this afternoon. Can you do it?" Sirius gave Jenkins a long, measured look, and the youth drew in a deep breath, blew up his lanky bangs, and squeaked, "Yes, sir!" Tonks hid a grin behind her hand.

"Let's go," Sirius commanded, turning into the Grim thereafter. Tonks blinked herself back into a hag, startling an exclamation of surprise from Jenkins, then croaked "Good luck, kid" at the confused boy. 

"Th—thanks," he said, voice breaking on the "a" sound. "Good luck to you, too!"

But they were already gone.

*****

Even while young Jenkins was recruiting witches and wizards to the cause, Snape was experiencing the dubious pleasure of being the absolute focus of Narcissa Malfoy's not inconsiderable depravity. Bellatrix had detected the ward-breaking spell on the cloak immediately and stripped it from him roughly, laughing while she simultaneously cast Cruciatus on the Traitor and burned the cloak to cinders in one of the fires used for communication. There'd been a brief scuffle, then, while Bellatrix searched for a wand (he'd wisely left it in Luna's care) and attempted to stake her claim on the prisoner—"I found him first!" Narcissa, however, had other ideas, and she asserted her right by the ancient rule of a monarch having first claim to the most powerful and ransom-worthy prisoners of war. Though Bellatrix tried cajolery, blandishment, and outright coercion to wrest Snape from Narcissa's cold, iron grip, she only succeeded in making the Malfoy witch angry, which resulted in some rather spectacular curses until a Death Eater aide-de-camp reminded the dueling women that Snape was still unrestrained and at liberty to run at any time. This brought both women to their senses, and Narcissa graciously nodded to the lackey, dosed him with punitive Cruciatus, and proceeded to bind Snape tightly in place, hands over his head, as though snapped taut by invisible wires attached to the ceiling, toes barely touching the floor.

Now, she was running her cold, cold hands up his torso, under his jumper, raking her fingernails down his chest to leave bloody furrows ending in curled strips of flesh. Each rake was followed by a spell that coated the open wounds with stinging salt. Snape tried not to wince, but the stinging only increased, and he finally had to flinch as her nails traced an already raw path, snagging a nipple and tearing the tenderest flesh there.

"I want to see," she cried, and a knife suddenly appeared in her hand, its long, gleaming, serrated blade making easy work of his jumper. His chest was ragged meat, something that had just been through the grinder, and she laughed again, wildly from her throat. Then, she moved toward his trouser fly, and he had to keep himself from starting, fearing that he'd give away the detonation spell planted there. He had keyed the spell to launch at her particular touch, hoping that it would be Narcissa who undressed him, hoping that she would use her hands and not a spell, hoping that she would be standing close when the detonaton occurred. Because he was the creator, it would not effect him, instead sending out a null wave to dampen or totally disarm any magic active in the room for a minute to a minute and a half, plenty of time for him to disarm Narcissa, shout down the wards, and open the cage in the Atrium. Maybe.

She tugged him by the waistband, and, helpless in his bonds, he moved into her. She gave him a long, wet, devouring kiss that he had to force himself to accept, though he wanted to wretch. Her tongue was like an eel, cold and slimy in his mouth. She bit his lower lip savagely, tearing at it until it bled, and laughed again, head back, nails raking a path down his back, spell salting the wounds as she made them. He hissed, an involuntary indrawing of breath, and she bit his throat, capturing his prominent Adam's apple in her teeth, bringing pressure to bear until he choked on the agony, on the surety that she would kill him like this, like... he stopped that thought in its tracks.

Suddenly, her hands were at his fly again, ripping at the button, and he felt the fluid power of the magical null wave push away from him out into the room, like a storm of which he was the eye. Narcissa cried out, falling back from him, hands out, eyes searching. Across the room at the cage, where Bellatrix had been playing a kind of Russian roulette on the prisoners with Cruciatus, she gave a strangled scream and fell backwards. The aide-de-camp was thoroughly unmaged, reduced to fumbling on a map table for anything to use as a weapon.

The magic binding Snape's hands gave all at once in a rush, and he stumbled with the loss of suspension but quickly righted himself, grabbing Narcissa's wand from her hand, where it shook, useless, casting Alohomora at the cage and then, stutter-shot, a ward-breaking spell. Even as he felt the wards melting, sliding down the Atrium walls like pus from a wound, he felt the null begin to fade, and in a desperate effort to complete the mission, he turned his wand on Narcissa and said, "Petrificus Totalus." Even as the words left his mouth, he heard Bellatrix's shout of triumph, saw a hot orange arc of light race towards him, and had no time left to dodge. Instead, he grabbed the immobile Narcissa, using her like a shield, and she caught the force of the curse, shrieking and babbling as she began to burn, and her wand, still in his hand, caught, then his hands where he held her, then the curled peelings of skin along his belly where she'd left them hanging. Snape stumbled back, momentarily shocked by the pain, and dimly he thought he heard Bellatrix begin another, even more complicated, curse. He couldn't see for the flames and smoke rising up from the still burning statue of a woman before him, and his eyes stung with the stench of human flesh on fire. He stumbled back a step, he hoped in the direction of cover, when he heard, "Take that, you vicious bitch!" in a vaguely familiar voice.

Bellatrix's curse turned into a scream, and then the fight began in earnest as Death Eaters poured from the emergency stairwell and the floo fireplace in the Atrium proper. Behind him, he heard glass breaking and saw with some relief that Shacklebolt, Luna, and Hagrid had made it through the wards and had broken the doors of the Ministry to gain entrance. He Accio'd his own wand from Luna's offering hand and turned toward the cage, where he saw Percy Weasley holding the sagging Bellatrix as Arthur delivered blow after blow by hand, and her head snapped back and forth, blood dripping from her broken mouth, her battered nose, her split cheek and chin. Snape shouted "Behind you!" even as the first Death Eater reinforcement cast a curse, and he saw Percy release Bellatrix and try to shove his father out of the way. Arthur caught the curse at the shoulder, and he cried out and fell to his knees in pain. Others rushed from the cage to his aid, but scattered as quick-fired curses drove into their midst. They were wandless, malnourished, weakened by repeated torture, and so they dove for cover wherever they could find it, cowering behind overturned tables or overstuffed chairs. All except Percy, who steadfastly guarded his father, hunched over him and using his body to shield Arthur as the older wizard made his way at a painful crawl toward the relative safety of a marble bench.

Beside Snape, Luna was chanting something in a dead language and before her a blue fog was rising. "We can see out but they can't see in," she explained as she ceased chanting, and he gave her an admiring look. Shacklebolt had made it as far as the statue with its gory, rotting ornaments of tortured flesh and was firing precisely aimed, powerful curses at whatever Death Eater he could find. He was remarkably accurate. Hagrid, though not possessed of reliable magic, was making his presence felt by picking up chairs, tables, and any other object not bolted to the floor, and hurling them at the opposition. A marble planter hurtled end over end through the air, showering soil and foliage, until it landed with a tremendous concussion and shattered into airborne marble shrapnel that flew with incredible force into the Death Eaters beyond. One was impaled through the eye with a shard twice the length of Hagrid's hand, and the Death Eater fell backwards, dead before his body hit the floor. A witch was crying in a high-pitched, repetitive wail, trying to get her shaking fingers around the blood-slicked surface of a marble fragment that had embedded itself in her stomach. Even as he watched, she fell forward onto her face and was still.

But the remaining Death Eaters—six, Snape counted—were regrouping, rallying around a tall man in dark purple robes who seemed far more self-possessed than the others. "Nott," Snape hissed. The blue fog was dissipating as a dark-haired witch chanted the counter-spell.

Shacklebolt threw a blue curse at Nott, who parried skillfully and returned fire almost casually. The Auror was forced to take cover behind the pulverized golden wizard statue in the Atrium fountain. Beside Snape, Hagrid grunted, taking the brunt of a Petrificus spell and shaking it off with great effort, as though he were trying to run through deep water. Snape urged Luna toward an information desk fixed to one side of the open Atrium, and as she ran she began muttering again, a dark curse by the oily feel of it. Curses nipped at her heels, caught the edge of her robe, ruffled through her trailing hair, which had come down from the neat bun in which she'd tamed it. Snape, rolling and dodging, made his serpentine way to the opposite side of the Atrium, casting curses when he had the chance but mostly attempting to avoid being caught by one. Hagrid, meanwhile, had taken another curse and was lying in a shaking, semi-conscious heap, muttering something unintelligible that might have been Gaelic.

Shacklebolt was moving along the base of the fountain on his belly, creeping forward until he had a clear shot at the six Death Eaters, who were arrogantly out in the open, standing in a rough circle. One of the enemy went down soundlessly, mouth open in a surprised, "Oh!" Nott whirled and cast a curse so fast that it was nearly invisible, just a streak of light, and when it cleared, Snape saw a limp, dark hand outstretched beyond the edge of the fountain's base. Things were looking grim. 

Two of the Death Eaters stalked towards Luna's position, attempting to flank her on either end of the open desk, but a sudden cloud of thick, noxious gas rose from her position, and they hastily retreated, coughing and wretching, eyes watering. Through the fumes, Snape thought he saw a door open and close, and he knew that Luna had escaped into the emergency stairwell. That left just him to stand against the five remaining Death Eaters. There was an ominous stillness, then, "Sev-er-us!" loose suspirants riding air heavy with the residue of many dark curses. Bellatrix had managed to crawl to a chair and use it to stand. She stood swaying to one side of the five Death Eaters, taunting and smiling a bloody-toothed, madwoman's grin. "C'mon, Severus, don't you want to play with me. We used to have such fun together!" Against his will, Snape shuddered, then shook his head as though ridding himself of memories. He aimed his wand carefully from behind the chair he was using as cover, and cast a curse at Nott, who dodged easily and laughed, "That's all you've got, Snape! And Our Lord admires you? Why, I cannot tell!" A deep rumble of laughter mixed with Bellatrix's lunatic cackling. The five Death Eaters began to move toward his position, spreading out and casting protective spells as they came. Snape, hunkered behind the chair, knew that he couldn't possibly defend himself from all of them. The nearest was beginning to creep around the left side of his cover, wand already raised, lips pursed in an "Ava—" position when a green light streaked from the direction of the cage, catching the lurking Death Eater between the shoulder blades and casting her up, up, upward, back arching impossibly, mouth opened wide, blood spewing forth, until she fell gracelessly to the floor, face down in her own running blood. Everyone froze, half-turned toward the cage, all except Snape, who had seen Percy Weasley raise the emergency wand ("Break glass in case of Magical Emergency") and send off its single charge of power in the form of a Piercing Curse. He was gone in a swirl of tattered robes even as Nott began to scream, "Avada—" Green light built on his wand-tip and he turned back toward Snape's chair, running forward now, rushing the Potions Master's position, the remaining Death Eaters taking his cue and bolting forward, too, to outflank and outfire him, to kill him.

Snape cast curse after curse, barely enunciating the fluid words of the darker curses, and one of the charging Death Eaters stumbled, fell forward, his momentum causing him to plung into the glass wall of the Atrium with astounding force, spiderweb cracks and a dull, throbbing thud attesting to the damage done to him. Nott was at the chair now, leaping over it, one foot already resting on the top of the chair's stuffed back, wand pointed directly down at Snape, who was trying to roll away but had little room to manuever. Then, in slow motion, Nott pitched forward, mouth opening on the words of a curse, changing half way through to a choked rasp of surprise. Blue light began to build behind his eyes as he fell, hands clawing at his own face, which was now aglow with azure light from within. Snape thought, incongruously, of the magical flames he lit under cauldrons reserved for the most volatile of potions. Nott's slow-motion fall broke then in a rush and he fell face first into the marble floor, all coordination gone, limbs stiffened in strange convulsions, strangled sounds pouring from his throat. His face was red now, suddenly, and Snape could see veins bulging in his forehead and along his neck. Snape saw Luna, who had emerged from another stairwell door on his side of the Atrium, blow off the end of her wand in a strange manner.

A yellow streak of light brought Snape back to the danger of his immediate position and he looked up just in time to see Shacklebolt striding forcefully across the length of the Atrium, firing in careful, precisely aimed bursts at the two remaining Death Eaters, who fell noiselessly dead to the floor. Bellatrix was still cackling maniacally, but she had been physically restrained by Luna Lovegood's father, who had come out from his hiding place to help as best he could. Cornelius Fudge was standing uncertainly by one of the abandoned communications fires, wringing his hand and crushing the brim of his green bowler, which had seen far better times.

"Shacklebolt," Snape barked, "Do a locator spell. Make sure that there are no more of them"—he spat in the direction of Nott's still-twitching body—"in the Ministry. Luna, gather the wands from the dead and distribute them to the former prisoners. Percy, check on Hagrid. Madame Edgecombe" he said to a grey-haired witch standing uncertainly near the body of a Death Eater, "Shut down the working Floos; we don't want any surprises. Fudge!"—the Minister of Magic cowered, shivering, and then, as though remembering his position, firmly planted his battered hat on his round head and drew himself up to his inconsiderable height. 

"I don't have to take orders from you, Professor Snape! I am the Minister of Magic."

Snape's lip curled up, showing one long canine, and he smiled a wicked, wicked smile. "True. Luna!—" Luna was at Fudge's side in an instant. She looked with mild curiosity at Snape. "Put him back in the cage." While Fudge sputtered and blustered, Luna prodded him at wandpoint into the cage, which she then sealed with a complex charm. Snape gave her one deep bow of his head and said, "Better."

Shacklebolt called out, "All clear!" 

Percy said, "I think Hagrid's alright. He's stiff, and he can't seem to talk, but I think it's wearing off."

Snape turned to look at Bellatrix, who was now being bound by a spell from her own wand, held by a grim-faced Arthur Weasley. As he turned further, he heard a gasp, and Luna started, "Professor Snape, you're—" which is as much as he heard, for the Dark Mark burst into agonizing life, green fire outlining the tattoo. Snape moved his right hand as if to cover or smother the fire on his left forearm, but the heat from the blazing light reminded him that his palms were singed and, as though that were a signal to his synapses, all the nerves in his abused body began to scream in unison. He shuddered, knees weakening, and Shacklebolt moved swiftly to his side, gingerly holding him by the waist, trying not to put pressure on the nail marks along Snape's back.

"By all the gods, I don't have time for this," he muttered through teeth clenched against the pain. The Mark had settled into a pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and every pulse shot fresh torment through his body like ground glass in his blood. Shacklebolt helped the Potions Master to a nearby chair, and Snape slumped there, bent over the Mark and trying to ignore the stinging anguish of torn flesh on his chest and back. He felt a cool hand against his neck and looked up to find Luna standing there, staring at him intently.

"What?" he snapped.

"Something's happening in Hogsmeade," she said, "Look." And she pointed to a row of enchanted clocks above the information desk, each identifying the state of a particular wizarding community. (Snape noted dispassionately that the hands of the Hogwarts clock had frozen on "Doomed.") The Hogsmeade clock read, "Terror! Horror! War!" Someone had added a sign above it with an additional phrase at the same place on its face: "Dark Lord Rising." Snape snorted, and even that hurt as it moved the skin of his rib cage uneasily. He felt the room swim around him, and he took a deep, steadying breath.

They had timed the Ministry raid and the liberation of Diagon Alley to coincide with the attack on Hogsmeade so that Voldemort would not be alerted to anything amiss in his dark little empire. By the light filtering into the Atrium, Snape could tell that it was still close to midday. Though his time at Narcissa's hands had seemed endless, he realized with surprise that the entire operation had taken only a few minutes. "Too easy," he said to himself, but he caught a corresponding nod of agreement out of the corner of his eye from the girl beside him.

"Shacklebolt!" he barked out. When the Auror looked up, Snape said, "Check for traps, detonation spells, that sort of thing. This was too easy." 

At his observation, Bellatrix resumed her maniacal cackling, singsonging, "Ea-sy, ea-sy, ea-sy" in an eerily childlike voice. Snape said, "Gag her and put her in the cage!" and Arthur cast a silencing spell, got Luna to open the cage door, and thrust her ungently inside The cage door boomed metallically, reminding Snape of the sound a cauldron makes when it falls from a shelf to the stone floor of the dungeon. It was not entirely unpleasant.

The effort of the command took the last of the breath from Snape's body; he felt suddenly weightless, cradled in enveloping darkness. Muffled voices, as though shouted down a well from a great distance, said things to him in strange languages, but he ignored them. Even his Dark Mark seemed to subside beneath the power of the blackness growing in his vision. He struggled for only a moment and then gave in, sighing back into the chair, unconscious, his last distinct thought being, "Not again..."

*****

Even as Snape was being led inside the Atrium of the Ministry by a gleeful Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius, Tonks, Fletcher, Molly, Rosmerta, and Albus were taking up their predetermined positions around Hogsmeade. 

Molly, in charge of seeing to the former Hogwarts students imprisoned in a camp outside of the village proper, had been given a few wands and told to distribute them only to the strongest and most steadfast of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw upper year students. Now, hidden behind a sheltering shrub near the ensorcelled wire fence of the children's camp, the witch was having trouble believing what her eyes were seeing. The enclosure, though not large, was dominated by an obviously magical stone tower, like something she had once seen in Western Britain. Squat, perhaps eight metres in circumference at its base and eleven metres high, it dominated the surrounding camp. Guards stationed at the top of the tower peered from crenellated battlements at the children huddled together in the mud below the tower's thick walls. As she watched, one urinated onto the group below him, scattering them with the steaming piss. There was scant shelter for the imprisoned students, and apparently they were not allowed even the dubious comfort of the thin canvas tents that she could discern behind the tower. Instead, the children stood shivering in close-packed groups, the remains of their robes in bloody tatters. Some were altogether naked, and she observed several with broken limbs, bloodied welts, or terrible gashes, red and inflamed from filth and lack of proper care. On every face was the hollow spectre of complete defeat; glassy eyes gazed unseeing at the world around them. Now and then, a guard would cast a curse into the tight groups, causing them to scurry apart like rats disturbed by bright light. It was only when a mannish, thick-bodied young witch said "Cruciatus" that Molly realized the guards were Slytherins, for she recognized Millicent Bulstrode's particularly nasal voice. Gazing more carefully up into the tower, she saw Pansy Parkinson and Gregory Goyle, faces she knew from covert photographs brought to Order meetings, when they had been instructed on the growing threat of Slytherin families loyal to Voldemort. She knew that where Goyle was, Crabbe must also surely be. She could detect no adult guards, but then, the Slytherins hardly needed adults when they were the only armed witches and wizards in a camp full of half-trained, unarmed children. Fierce anger burned up her throat like bile, bringing a deep crimson flush to her cheeks, and she began to calculate her chances of getting to the nearest group without being spotted by the tower guards. She would need a diversion. . .

To the west of town, the men and boys of Hogsmeade were similarly confined, though there was nothing quite so fanciful here as a stone tower. Here, where the wicked wire fence crackled with Dark magic, the male prisoners were crowded in groups around comfortless barrel fires that offered only scant warmth to counteract the biting December wind. Many men had young boys wrapped in the remains of their robes and were pressing themselves against the shivering children, trying to lend them what little body heat they had. All were filthy, damp, cheeks hollowed out from malnourishment, shoulders bent as if expecting blows. Along the fence at intervals stood Death Eater sentinels, Fletcher counted six in all, enveloped in their own warming spells and lording their comfort over the wretched prisoners. A boy no more than six was crying fitfully, and a man, likely his father, was trying to shush him. As Fletcher watched, one of the Death Eaters left his post, stepped toward the group harboring the crying child, and flicked his wand almost casually. The boy went rigid, his face quickly turning red and then purple. He scrabbled at his throat with torn fingernails, leaving scratches on the dirty skin there as he struggled to breathe. The boy's father was on his knees beside his dying son, begging, "Please. Please, no. Please, he'll be good, I swear it." But the Death Eater, unmoved, only turned his back and returned to his post. The child struggled fitfully, weakening, and then, kicking his last against the mud in which he had fallen, he died. Grief-maddened, the father stood up and made as though to lunge at his son's murderer, but the others in the group held him back, murmuring ridiculous promises under their breath. No one believed they would ever get even. None thought that they would leave the camp alive. One, a tall man less bowed than the others, broke away and walked with slow, sure steps toward one of the Death Eater guards. "We'd like to bury him," he said when he was within six feet of his captor. The Death Eater gave no sign that he had heard, but a shovel appeared on the ground next to the boy's corpse, behind the supplicant. The prisoner said nothing, only nodded once and turned back to the waiting group. Fletcher, one fist clenched against his mouth to keep from crying out at the horror of the scene, to keep from cursing the Death Eater scum who had killed a defenseless child, began to plan his attack. He would need a diversion...

To the east of town, at the women and girls camp, it was much the same scene, except that here the camp was dominated by a splendid, white silk tent flying an enormous flag with the Malfoy family crest. Rosmerta could not see inside the tent from her position near the enchanted wire fence, but she knew that nothing good could come from Lucius Malfoy. As she watched, a Death Eater witch led a struggling girl of perhaps thirteen toward the entrance of the tent. The girl was crying desperately, begging in a constant stream of supplication: "Please, no. Please, I'll do anything, please. Please don't make me go in there. Please, gods, Merlin, no, please..." Abruptly, as the girl's shaking form was thrust through the tent's door, the girl's pleadings were silenced. Silencing charm, thought Rosmerta, until an unearthly shriek rose from the tent and she knew that it was not so. Of course not, she thought again, he'd want the others to hear, to know what was coming. A wail now, utterly hopeless, ending with a high-pitched squeal reserved for humans who have been reduced to their most animal instincts. Rosmerta shuddered, noticed her wet cheeks, and wiped away the tears that had fallen unbidden. She began to work out her best course of action. She would need a diversion...

When the trees to the southeast, east, and west of Hogsmeade all burst simultaneously into magical, bright green flames, the Death Eaters occupying the Town Square thought that their Dark Lord had come at last. They had erected an enormous pavilion of black, shining stone, at one end of which, raised on a dais made of blood-red wood stood an ebony throne, about the base of which were chained catamites of varying ages, most of them culled from the lower orders of Hogwarts' remaining houses. The Death Eaters gathered there looked at one another, confusion evident on their unmasked faces—no need for circumspection when you owned the world. They began to confer in small groups, uncertain what they should do, knowing that any choice at all could earn them the Dark Lord's most feared punishment. Of the twenty milling about the open pavilion, six seemed to think it wise to investigate, and they broke off into three pairs, heading in different directions. Albus' smile was grim; that left only fourteen for he, Tonks, and Black to subdue.

Although he could not see them, Albus knew that Tonks and Black were in place. He also knew that they must ignore the fires for the time being; he had not yet given the pre-arranged signal for the joint attack to begin, and besides, it was far too early for the camps to be armed. No, it must be a diversionary tactic. He waited patiently. From the distance, to the East, he thought that he could make out muffled cries, and from the West a magical claxon was sounding its repetitive, brazen alarm. There was no sound from the southeast, but risking a little peek, he could see something waving from the strange stone tower that had been erected there. The trees ringing Hogsmeade sent plumes of thick black and green smoke into the air and the remaining Death Eaters milled nervously, like spooked animals. Dumbledore consulted his watch, which read, "Be patient" and "Soon," both.

Suddenly, the movement of the Death Eaters became more agitated, and Dumbledore could detect some purposeful motion as they fell into two ranks, one to either side of the long aisle leading up to the dais and its ugly throne. "So he's come," Dumbledore murmured, wondering if the Dark Lord would detect the presence of Albus' own powerful magic even under the dampening spells he'd placed on himself as a precaution. The Headmaster was tempted to touch the green leather pouch around his neck, but his hand dropped away as it brushed the dark and living energy surrounding it. He shivered, the tiniest of motions, and then was still.

Across the way, hidden in someone's back garden, Black crouched and pondered the haze of smoke riding low over the village from the burning forest. From his vantage point, he could not tell whether or not the Dark Lord had arrived, but he had seen a pair of Death Eaters head to the west of town, in all likelihood seeking the source of the fire. He had been tempted to follow them in dog form and kill them, but he knew better than to risk exposing the plan of attack. Instead, he tapped his fingers against the garden fence, impatient to get started and anxious to have it done with. He wondered, not for the first time, how Snape was getting on at the Ministry. He wondered where Harry was, and if he was safe. He wished again that Dumbledore would just give the damned signal. He was no good at waiting.

Tonks was similarly occupied to the north of Albus' and Sirius' positions, where she was kneeling behind a compostor, the stench of which was making her gag with every deeply in-drawn breath. She wished that Dumbledore would give the signal, because from where she was located, she could see nothing at all of the pavilion nor its occupants, and the thick clouds of smoke rising into the sky were making her nervous.

Albus shifted in his position, seeing the Death Eaters fall into rough order around Voldemort, who was sitting on his throne and dragging a third year Hufflepuff named Alvin Meecham toward him by the chain fastened to a studded collar at his throat. Albus' anger and power rose at the same instant, and he raised his wand to fire the stream of golden sparks that would alert his co-conspirators to begin the attack.

*****

Having lost hours before the strange tugging sensation in his belly, Harry Potter had been stumbling forward along a barely discernible path through the Forbidden Forest fueled by instinct and a desperate desire for other human contact. Currently, he was stalled in his progress by the sight of columns of green and gray smoke rising into the air ahead of him The air was warmer here, too, and he wondered if the Forest were on fire. Straining to hear over the pounding of his heart, he thought he could make out distant cries, shouts of alarm, and what might have been a claxon. They must be nearing a village, he surmised. Casting an anxious glance at his prisoner, who appeared unalarmed by the sudden change in atmosphere, Harry stood undecided for a moment and then lowered the prisoner to the ground and released the Mobilicorpus spell he'd been using for transport. "I'm going ahead to find out what's happening. I'll come back for you," he paused, adding in a muttered underbreath, "Not that you deserve it." So saying, he turned his back on the bound figure and began to approach the apparent fire with caution.

He did not see the figure begin to bend and writhe, loosening the magical bonds further.

*****

Molly, Fletcher, and Rosmerta had all been successful in arming a small contingent of the most uninjured and competent witches and wizards in each of the interment camps, though not without some difficulty. In Molly's case, the magical fire had drawn many of the Slytherin guards to the fence furthest the huddled children, and some of the guards had scurried from the tower like roaches toward a feast, but she could still see the shadowy forms of four or five guards at the top of the tower. Their attention seemed to be turned toward the fires, however, and she knew there would never be another opportunity for action. Slipping to the fenceline, she cast a spell to disarm the dark magic crackling in the wires and slipped through. Moving in a crouching run, she came to the edge of the huddled mass of children and wormed her way into the center before they even realized that she didn't belong among them. She said quietly, "Act as though I'm not here. Don't look at me. Keep me covered." And then, choosing a tall boy who seemed somewhat less traumatized than the others, she whispered, "I'm here to help you," pulling six Ollivander's wands from her robes as she did so. "What's your name?" The boy stared blankly at her for a moment, as though she were a mirage or a cruel hoax, and then seemed to come into possession of himself. "Roger Davies," he said, voice barely audible over the omnipresent snaps and pops of the burning forest. 

"Roger, are you good at magic?" Molly asked, "Do you know any offensive spells?" 

He nodded hesitantly. 

"You have to be sure, Roger. If not, I can ask someone else." 

"No," he said, voice firm, "I can do Petrificus Totalus, the Jellylegs Jinx, and Impedimenta. Is that enough?" 

Lips thin, Molly looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "It will have to be. Here," and she thrust a long, oak wand at him. "It's not your own, so it might feel strange, but you'll have to do the best you can." 

By this time, others had gathered near her, though with their backs to her crouched form; many of them were from the same form or older than the Davies boy. 

One spoke up, "I'd like a wand, please. I can help." 

"Name?" 

"Ernie Macmillan." 

After a brief interrogation, Ernie was given an ash wand, and Molly moved on to an older girl who seemed self-possessed.

"Hannah Abbott." Molly gave her a willow wand.

And so on, until all six wands were distributed. 

Still whispering almost inaudibly, Molly said, "Shortly, there will be a pillar of golden sparks to the northwest of this camp. That's the signal. When that happens, start casting whatever you can throw at the Slytherin guards. Those of you who are wandless can help by distracting them, fouling their aim, and maybe taking the Slytherins' wands from them if they're stunned or otherwise disabled. Do the best you can. I'll be over there," she jerked her head in the direction of her hiding spot. "When the action starts, I'll pitch in. Do the best you can. Be brave, and know that you're not alone anymore. I won't let you die in this place." 

The children provided Molly cover as she moved back to the fence and into concealment. Then they returned to their huddle, seeming to shrink and lose life before her eyes. 

"Soon," she whispered to herself. "Make it soon, Albus."

This pattern of interaction was repeated at the women and girls' camp and the men and boys' camp, respectively. None of the Survivors encountered any real difficulty; so assured of their dominance were the Death Eaters that they were lax in their guard duties, laughing and talking amongst themselves, casting random Cruciatus curses and betting on who would be hit or how long the victim would survive a non-stop casting, and generally acting as Lords and Ladies of the manor. Though odious behavior, it worked in the favor of the Survivors, who were able to arm the most competent captives in each of the camps, organize an impromptu resistance, relay the signal, and return to hiding at the camp fences.

In their respective concealments, Rosmerta and Fletcher watched the sky to the north with absolute focus, waiting to see a column of golden sparks firing the cloudy, smoke-filled sky.

*****

Harry had just reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest where it met the northernmost edge of a town that he now recognized was Hogsmeade when a pillar of brilliant golden light shot into the sky to the south of his position. He was just beyond the fence delineating a row of back gardens, so he did not have much of a vantage point from which to determine what was transpiring. Scaling the fence and creeping along the side of a house, he slunk far enough into the front yard to hide himself from both the house's occupants and the street by diving behind a row of shrubs planted near the house's foundation. From here, peeking over the carefully tended shrubs, he could see through a gap in the front gate's slats that the pillar of light was coming from the town square, which also seemed to have sprouted an enormous and forbidding black pavilion. 

Seeing no one in the streets, nor any signs of life from the houses to either side, he decided to risk the exposure necessary to steal out the front gate and move from house to house down the street in front of him, which ran perpendicular to and ended at the town square. For the umpteenth time, he wished he'd taken his invisibility cloak with him when he'd followed Dumbledore and Hagrid into the Forbidden Forest, but Ron had borrowed it the night before for undisclosed reasons (the redhead had been very secretive, and Harry'd been miffed, something he sorely regretted now), so Harry was just going to have to use whatever native stealth he could glean from James Potter, the Marauder's, genes. He began the painstaking process of cautious forward progress.

He didn't detect the shadow he seemed to have acquired since leaving the Forbidden Forest.

*****

At the sight of the golden pillar, the three prison camps erupted into noise, a cacophony of voices rising in shouts, shrieks, screams, cries, and even a few hysterical giggles. The wandless captives were providing vocal cover for their armed peers, who, hidden in the milling crowds of prisoners, cast surreptitious spells at whatever guard happened to be in range. In the children's camp, Millicent Bullstrode, who had been leaning over a parapet to see what all the noise was about, was caught by Stupefy mid-lean and plummeted soundlessly from the tower, her body landing with a squishing thud in the mud at the base of the tower. The other Slytherin guards began to shout and run about, some to her obviously lifeless body, others towards the group of children, who were now moving in a strange pattern, a kind of serpentine weaving in and out, circularly, so that from the outside no one could identify individual prisoners at the heart of the formation. A Slytherin on the ground fell, petrified, and began to shout obscenities at his peers, who knew then that someone was casting curses. From the tower, a disorganized shouting went up, and a Slytherin on the ground began throwing indiscriminate curses into the moving throng of captives, who merely sped up their circling in response. A little girl fell into the mud, but the others kept moving, knowing that there was safety only in motion. In the tower, Gregory Goyle was caught by a dancing curse and began to gyrate and bop to a tune only he could hear. As he came dangerously close to the edge of the parapet, Pansy Parkinson caught and tried to hold him, only to be struck herself by a Jellylegs jinx. She fell, legs boneless, onto the floor of the tower, and Goyle, seeing his own doom as his traitorous legs approached it, began screaming like a little girl. Pansy tried to call out orders for someone to help him, but no one was listening to her. He tottered perilously, his knees catching the parapet where it opened at a crenellation, and he toppled over, screaming and begging for help. None of the Slytherin apparently thought to levitate him, and Goyle had soon joined Millicent Bullstrode face down in the mud at the tower's base. Some of the Slytherins had taken refuge on the side of the tower opposite the prisoners, but they were distressed to find themselves pinned down by curses fired from an indeterminate location beyond the fenceline—Molly Weasley, keeping her promise to the children.

At the men's camp, Fletcher had distributed an even dozen wands, and they were being used to great effect. Here, the Death Eaters seemed to be mostly new recruits, and their leader, a scarred young man scarcely twenty-five and obviously inexperienced, seemed flummoxed. Fletcher put him out of his misery personally, laughing grimly as the boy fell. Curses rained down upon the Death Eater guards until all but three had been subdued. Those three took off at a dead run, heading toward the town square and the security of their Dark Lord. They were blocked before they could reach the fence by a line of gray-faced prisoners who, though wandless, were not weaponless. They had dumped over the burning barrels, split the staves, and were hefting the charred pieces of curved timber menacingly, disturbing smiles on their faces. Turning about, the Death Eaters made to flee back the way they had come but found themselves blocked by the ten wandbearing wizards and witches who had survived the assault. The ten all cried "Expelliarmus!" at virtually the same moment, and three wands flew from the Death Eaters' suddenly sweaty clutches. Then, the prisoners behind them moved in with their homemade cudgels. For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of muted screams, labored breathing, and the dull thud of wood against robed flesh. Then, the screams ceased, the sound thickened and became wet, and finally, the prisoners moved back, bloodied but with maniacal smiles of supreme satisfaction.

At the women's camp, Rosmerta was cornered. At her back was the fatal magic of the ensorcelled fence and before her was Lucius Malfoy, who was smiling at her in a decidedly suggestive and highly unfriendly way. In one hand, he twirled his wand almost carelessly (hers was at his feet, broken in the mud). With the other hand, he stroked his crotch through his leather pants. He licked his lips with a sharp, red tongue, and said, "Well, Rosmerta, what a surprise. I'm so glad that you could drop in." His voice was malignantly sweet. "Had I known you were coming, I could have prepared such delights for us." She glared at him, casting about for a diversion or a weapon she could use to escape him. Nothing presented itself. He gave a mock sigh of disappointment. "I suppose that I shall have to make this quick, though. It seems that you're not alone, and there is nothing I dislike more than gatecrashers. Still, while you're not exactly my type, I suppose that I should get something for tolerating your rude entrance." He approached her with long, fluid strides, moving so quickly that she barely had time to register his intent. He'd stowed his wand somewhere on his person and reached out both hands to trap her wrists, grinding them together and holding them with one hand. With the other, he traced her cheek and jawline, and she jerked away from the caress. He grabbed her hair roughly, yanking her face around to his and pulling her into a brutal kiss. Biting her bottom lip savagely, he drew blood, and Rosmerta hated the whimper that left her throat. He smiled against her mouth then retreated, his lips bloody. He licked them salaciously and said, "Yum." In his mouth, it was the dirtiest word in the language. She shuddered. Taking his hand from her hair, he roved slowly down her body, pausing at her breasts, which he squeezed mercilessly, then dropping lower, until he was cupping her sex roughly through her robes, grinding the heel of his hand against her mons. She tried to move off of his violating hand, but his grip on her wrists tightened until she felt the bones of her wrists start to give like wet wood. She stood still. "Good girl," he said, as though praising a dog who had come to heel. He had just begun to part her robes when he straightened suddenly, the oddest look crossing his face. The hand that had been holding her wrists fell away and he staggered back a half-step, the other hand coming up as though to salute her. Then, he fell backward, not reaching out to stop his fall, not crying out, his eyes wide and staring, life draining from them slowly. As Rosmerta watched, the front of his leather pants was stained with a flood of released urine. She looked up. Standing a few feet away was a witch who bore a striking resemblance to the girl that Rosmerta had seen dragged into Malfoy's tent earlier in the day. She was holding a bloodied tent stake. Rosmerta said, "Thank you," but the woman merely turned and walked away, heading toward a knot of prisoners.

*****

In the town square, Albus, Sirius, and Tonks were firing on the Death Eaters in the pavilion, who had immediately fallen in to protect their Dark Lord. Clotted as they were around his inky throne, they made ideal targets, and Tonks and Sirius each counted two to their credit before the remaining ten rallied and began to systematically destroy any surrounding cover. Tonks dove away from the composter just as it exploded into shrapnel, a shard of splintered wood spearing her in her left calf as she came up from a perfect roll to dive behind a tree. Another curse pounded into the dirt to her left. "Too close," she muttered to herself, yanking the splinter from her bleeding leg with a loud, "Fuck!" A third curse zinged the edge of the sheltering tree, scattering bark like heavy rain around her. She threw her bloodied hand up to shield her eyes. "A little help over here!" she shouted irritably. Aurors would have given her cover fire already. 

Unfortunately for the pinned Tonks, Sirius was likewise occupied in attempting to keep his head attached to his body. He'd watched a steady string of rapid-fire red curses exploding objects in a direct line toward his hiding spot and had decided that if discretion was the better part of valor, valor was highly overrated. Changing mid-leap into his alternate form, he raced in great, bounding strides toward the pavilion, zigzagging, rolling in the dust to avoid curses, and growling madly, foam sluicing from his parted jaws, eyes feral and gleaming. So shocked were the Death Eaters by this direct attack from an unexpected source that not one of them fired a curse until Sirius had already launched himself into the air, and that curse went wide and high. He bowled into two Death Eaters, whose uncontrolled backward career took out a third. Tearing at the throat of the nearest Death Eater and growling like a wild thing, he was so lost in the sheer pleasure of a bloody kill that he didn't hear the rising hiss of an incantation from the throne above him until it was too late for him to run. A green flame made its way toward him, slow-motion, as he lifted his slavering jaws from the rapidly cooling throat of a second Death Eater whose life he had swallowed. Even as he heaved away from the corpse, scrabbling for purchase on the lifeless flesh beneath him, the first tendrils of green reached his hindquarters, and he let up a howl of surprise. The flesh began to singe and a stink rose, the scent of his own fur and skin charring. Pain bored through him, twisting his spine unnaturally. He began to whine high and piteous, over and over. The green light was piercing and rending now, tearing at the muscles beneath his haunch, burrowing upward toward his heart with a slow deliberation of purpose: to inflict agony before it killed. 

Dumbledore was suddenly beside Black, chanting a protection spell under his breath even as his wand fired balls of hot blue light at the throne. The drilling pain ceased as the green light faltered and then went out with a zap and the distinctive odor of ozone. Shaking off the vestiges of torture, Black struggled to stand and found that he could do so, though not without difficulty. He changed back to his human form, accio'd his wand, and began casting fluidly at the Death Eaters around him. First to go were two with their backs to him, who were staidly firing curses in Tonks' direction. Next came the third Death Eater who had fallen when he'd attacked in dog form. Apparently, the woman had snapped a limb on the way down, and she was dragging herself stolidly along, stopping now and then to launch a curse at Albus. Her hair was first to catch, then her robes, and her shriek distracted another Death Eater, who had been trying to sneak behind Albus from around the back of Voldemort's throne. Albus caught him mid-chant, sending a beam of piercing yellow light through his throat; before he stopped the curse, Albus saw a hole appear in a support beam behind the now-dead Death Eater.

The Dark Lord himself was standing in front of his throne, holding Alvin Meecham by the throat and using the poor boy's thin, nude body as a shield. With his free hand, he was casting the Killing Curse almost offhandedly at Albus, who was heavily warded with protection spells and whose green pouch was giving off a light strangely reminiscent of the Dark Mark's signature green. As Sirius watched, Voldemort's Curse caught one of his own guards, and the Death Eater screamed with horrified surprise as the life left him. Albus suddenly staggered back, a black fog having developed around his shields, delineating them and eating away at their strength. Sirius rushed to aid the Headmaster even as Tonks raced into the Pavilion from the opposite side, throwing explosive curses at the throne and the few Death Eaters gathered at its base. Alvin Meecham was struggling weakly in the Dark Lord's bruising grip, mouth gaping open like a fish above water as he gasped desperately for air. Voldemort casually crushed his throat and cast him aside, drawing up a second catamite by the chain—eleven-year-old Hufflepuff Randall Robbins. The boy was hauling back against the chain, holding the collar around his throat and throwing himself away from the beckoning figure. It was a losing tug-of-war, but it threw Voldemort off-balance for only a moment, long enough for his wand to waver, sending the black fog whipping down into the thinning ranks of the Death Eaters, who began to cringe and back hastily away from the uncontrolled black cloud. It wrapped itself around the face of a middle-aged witch, and she started to scream, an ugly sound cut off abruptly by the choking Dark mask. 

The two remaining Death Eaters abandoned even the pretense of helping their Dark Lord and began to run pell-mell down the length of the pavilion, weaving in and out of support beams, diving, and rolling to avoid Tonks' pursuing spells. Laughing, she taunted, "Come back here and fight like real wizards, you pansy-assed Dark Lord wannabes!" Breathless, a trimphant smile on her face, she turned toward Sirius to see his reaction when a glaring green light blossomed on her chest. Staring down, dumbfounded and not at all sure what had just happened, Tonks cast a bemused glance at Sirius, whose face was a study in sudden sorrow. "What's thi--" she began, but she was dead before she could finish the word. Her body seemed to fold in on itself, all vitality, all passion, all motion fled from her sagging form, until she lie inert and quickly cooling against the blackened grass floor of the Dark Lord's pavilion. 

Voldemort hissed, gloating, and turned his glowing wandtip to Sirius, who was still staring, transfixed, at the space in the air that moments before had been filled by Tonks. Albus barked, "Sirius!" and the animagus shifted his attention, but he was slow—so slow—as again a stop-gap green light snaked its way lazily toward him. He wouldn't have been surprised to see it glowing in a minor nova on his chest, but instead he heard, "Sirius!" from behind the throne and then, impossibly, Harry was there, and the green light again faltered, again dropped away to sizzle out to nothing more than a burnt-ozone smell. Voldemort's wand shifted focus again, centering on the famous scar on Harry Potter's famous forehead. Sneering, Voldemort began, "Avada Keda—" when Dumbledore stepped up onto the dais supporting the throne and thrust the bloodstone out into the glowing green light just seeping from the Dark Lord's wandtip.

The bloodstone refracted the green light, casting it in dancing, swirling patterns above them, and Dumbledore was momentarily flummoxed by the patterns' similarity to a Muggle disco ball he'd once seen in a London night club. He began to hear strange music in his head as the green light sped up, a kind of wailing horn riff, until he realized that it was Voldemort, who was writhing and trying to pry his own fingers off of his wand, which seemed to be fused to his skin. Albus' fingers were numb with fire, a green-and-red sparkling that crept slowly up his hand like water at tide's change. His face reflected the spectral spell light, his beard echoing the colors and then catching, too, with strange fire. Voldemort's screams were weakening now, and he seemed to be shrinking, his skin sloughing away from his face, bones melting. As Albus watched with a mixture of wonder and fear, Voldemort, the Dark Lord, bane of the wizarding world, liquified into a pyre of awful, black light, like a null place in reality, and then winked out with a thin and echoing cry of disbelief. Just then, Albus noticed that he couldn't feel his arm all the way up to the elbow now, and he thought he heard a boy's voice screaming, "Let go of the stone! Let go of the stone!" but he couldn't be sure. 

Albus was struck suddenly with the idea that he'd been in this situation before, and he remembered quite clearly, then, as though it were yesterday, an experiment he'd tried with a classmate when they were in their third year at Hogwarts. They'd snuck into the Potions Lab late one night and had tried to make the Wizard's version of St. Elmo's Fire, succeeding instead in igniting the air in the lab, which had sparkled red and green with magical flames, just as his beard and eyelashes and fingertips and robes seemed to be doing now. He smiled with glee, remembering his friend, Sibelius Orestes, whose ineptitude in Potions had only been rivaled by his skill in Quidditch. Albus' mind followed Orestes out of the tunnel of the locker rooms and into the bright afternoon sun of a late Spring match. Funny, he had never remembered the pitch being so green.

As Sirius and Harry looked on, immobile with horror, Albus became the nucleus of a fiery cloud of sparks and licks of fire; his form wavered, as though they were looking at it through bubbled glass, and then, with an incredible rushing of air that sounded like the Four Winds descending in one tight maelstrom, Albus' body transformed into a pillar of tangible flame, satiny and brilliant and omnipresent, until both had to shield their eyes from the impossible brightness. 

When they looked up again, Albus was gone, not even a pile of ash nor an empty robe to mark his ever having been. Shaken, Sirius turned to Harry, who threw his shaking arms around his godfather's too-thin waist. Sirius closed his eyes and rested his cheek on Harry's matted hair, anguish battling with relief, guilt with love as the boy sobbed in his arms. Just then another noise disturbed the still-stirring air of the pavilion, a roaring wave of sound rising and falling in an animal rhythm, like the noise the stone lions of Hogwarts had sometimes made as they animated and roamed the grounds, a deep huffing. Down the centre aisle of the pavilion, which ran like a dark continuation of the main cross street of Hogsmeade, Harry and Sirius saw a roiling mass of people coming and before them the remaining Slytherin and Death Eater guards, being reaved like moldy wheat by scything spells. 

Harry never knew what made him turn around, turn away from the raucous crowd of victorious townspeople and the remaining Survivors rushing down the street toward the pavilion, but he saw Minerva McGonagall, free of the binding spells he had held her under all these many days, stalking toward them with purpose, the wand of a fallen Death Eater gripped in one eagerly outstretched hand. It was pointed directly at Harry. Harry shouted, "Watch out!," giving Sirius a shove and trying to draw his wand free of the stumbling animagus, who turned toward the witch as she began "Avada Kedav—" but another voice echoed hers, half a syllable behind, and even as the green light raced from her wandtip, Harry's wand glowed and released a matching green light. Sirius transformed without thinking and leapt toward the witch, hoping to knock her wand hand off-target, knowing even as he made the desperate attempt that he would not succeed. His vision filled with livid green light, and the last thing he heard was Harry shouting his name.

*****

Snape regained consciousness only moments after he had lost it, not having gone willingly into the consuming blackness in the first place. He heard a babble of voices that finally settled into Arthur, Percy, and Luna gathering information from the other points of attack via the fires in the Atrium. He struggled to sit up, pushing heavily against the arms of the chair until he was standing on knocking knees, which he slowly disciplined into the compromise of a shuffling walk. He made it to Arthur's fire just as a strange face from Hogsmeade said, "The animagus is dead." Snape's steps faltered; he back-stepped a pace, arms out to balance, head suddenly light, world spinning—windows, cage, fire, windows, cage, fire, windows, cage—. "What?" he asked, not comprehending. Luna, understanding, said, "Professor, I'm so sorry." One look at her face confirmed his suspicion.

Snape hung his head for a long minute, gathering breath and strength, thinking of nothing so much as how filthy the floor was, how his borrowed Muggle boots were terribly scuffed, how blood had dried in unattractive brown tracks down his trousers. When he raised his head again, his face was a blank stone upon which nothing was written. He walked unerringly, even gracefully, toward the cage where Bellatrix Lestrange sat gibbering madly and laughing over nonsense words and Fudge cowered pathetically in the corner farthest from her. Raising his wand, hand perfectly steady, Snape intoned the syllables precisely, green light emanated from his wand, and Bellatrix died, gasping once as the silencing spell broke and whispering "Salt" as she slumped lifeless against the cage bars. 

Fudge blustered something that Snape either did not hear or chose to ignore as he spun on his heel sharply and headed for the broom locker. He was far too weak to apparate, but he could steady a stolen broom well enough. As he reached into the closet for a particularly fine, vintage Harpy Fifty-two, he heard a ghost's voice echo in his head, and he shook himself sharply to clear the sound. Again it came, "Snape. Snape, you git, I'm alright! Severus!" the voice urgent now and strangely loud for a spectre. Frozen, one hand out as though to ask a boon, Snape turned his head, staring at the fire that Arthur had been using just a minute or two before. Sirius Black's disembodied head was there, blood and sweat alternating down his bruised face like macabre clown's stripes. "I'm alright, Severus. I'm fine. It's McGonagall who's dead— she's the animagus the bloody fool meant, not me." 

Once again, Snape's head dropped to his chest and he appeared to be contemplating something ponderous and weighty. Then he looked up, and Sirius saw, even across the great distance between them, the long stretch of pocked marble like a plain of impossible promise, a single tear trace through the dirt on Snape's stained cheek. Even from that distance, Black saw Snape's shoulders begin to shake, then his arms, wrists, hands, until his wand clattered from suddenly nerveless fingers and his knees began to give. Sirius muttered something over his shoulder, then barked a command in the direction of Madame Edgecombe, who hastily spat out a series of guttural charms. Then Sirius was through the reopened floo and at Snape's side, saying as he slid to his knees beside the shaking Potions Master, "Severus. We're safe. This is real and we're safe," and laying a gentle kiss on Snape's tear-dampened lips. Behind them, Arthur gasped but quickly recovered himself, offering Snape a robe to drape around his ruined torso and clucking about baths and food and rest. 

The fourth time Fudge bellowed something about Aurors and Azkaban, Percy cast a silencing spell and then said, "Obliviate!" commandingly, and Luna applauded and giggled. Snape, resting against Black's chest, heard only the pounding of his lover's heart and the suspiration of Sirius' soothing words against his yearning ear.


End file.
